


The Annual Holiday Jingle Mingle

by bea_meupscotty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Party, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Infidelity, mistletoe hijinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 20:11:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13578087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_meupscotty/pseuds/bea_meupscotty
Summary: Ginny attends the Ministry's annual holiday party without Harry, featuring appearances by Draco Malfoy, drunk Ron, and enchanted mistletoe.Set roughly around the time of Cursed Child, but we don't actually speak of the events of Cursed Child, they never actually happened.





	The Annual Holiday Jingle Mingle

**Author's Note:**

> I meant for this to be some short Christmas fluff, but it is no longer short, turned somewhat angsty, and I may write a follow-up. Whoops! Constructive criticism (or love!) very welcome. My trash soul is fed by your kudos and comments. 
> 
> None of the characters or setting are mine--all belong to JKR.

“Ronald Weasley, stop fiddling with your robes.”

Ginny huffed exasperatedly and smacked her brother’s hand away from the place where he had twisted the corner of his dress robes into a furious knot, like he was a nervous child rather than a (somewhat) respectable middle-aged Auror. As he dropped the sleeve guiltily, she reached for her wand and quickly de-wrinkled the fabric. 

“Yes, _mum_ ,” he said, eyes rolling, and Ginny had a sharp retort (she _knew_ she had become her mother but that didn’t keep it from being a sore spot) but he followed it up with the slightest hint of a chuckle and a gleam in his eyes. Ginny leaned over and punched him softly in the arm instead, he crumpled exaggeratedly, and soon the two of them had dissolved into a fit of giggles like they were both ten again. 

“What on earth are the two of you doing? You’re going to be late!” Ginny glanced up to see Hermione’s frantic face looking down over the edge of the banister, her hair even more wild than usual as she ran a hand anxiously through it for approximately the thousandth time this evening. She had ink stains on her face, dark circles under her eyes, and that slightly manic flush to her face that Ginny recognized well from her many years observing her sister-in-law’s passions and work ethic. 

“Relax, ‘Mione, it’s the Ministry Christmas party, not our wedding. I promise we’ll be no later than fashionably late. It’d be rude to show up too early anyway.” Ron’s tone had adjusted down to a cautious, soothing octave that Ginny had seen him use only with crying children, spooked animals, and his wife. Despite his astonishing lack of emotional intelligence (there were some things it seemed time could not fix), Ron had grown remarkably good at handling his mercurial wife. 

“Well, fine, just… I just wish I was able to be there, and with Harry not there either… It feels like we’re neglecting our duties.” Hermione trailed off, nails tapping anxiously against the banister. 

“Hermione, don’t worry. You and Harry have important matters to attend to. The kids are all with Rolf and Luna. If the two of you can handle the work responsibilities of being Head Auror and Minster of Magic for the night, I think Ron and I can handle the social responsibilities.” Ginny shot a reassuring smile up at Hermione, who exhaled visibly. 

“You’re right, Gin, you’re right. I’m sorry, I’ll just feel a lot better when this extradition matter is cleared up. I hate working with the Bolivian Ministry…” Suddenly the rush of the Floo upstairs could be distantly heard, and then Harry’s voice calling from the fireplace, in a short, clipped tone Ginny recognized as Harry-trying-to-control-his-frustration, and then Hermione quickly disappeared around the corner again with an apologetic glance and a shooing motion of her hands at the two siblings. 

“Well, shall we, Mrs. Potter?” Ron took Ginny by the elbow. “We shall, Mr. Granger.” Ginny shot him a cheeky grin, but Ron just rolled his eyes, and then the two of them stepped together into the fireplace, emerging in the Ministry atrium. It was an explosion of exuberant red, green and gold immediately upon exiting the Floo, filled with shimmering tinsel wrapped around cozily glowing candles floating overhead and a string quartet playing cheerful tunes musician-less in the corner. Ginny had only a few moments to take in the spectacle before she heard a delighted-sounding Why, it’s Ginny Potter! and was pulled into a frenzied merry-go-round of small talk by a thin man with a thinner mustache who worked in the Department of Magical Games and Sports and whom she’d met no fewer than six times without once retaining his name. Harry had been able to attend fewer and fewer of the balls and parties they were invited (and expected) to attend in the past few years, and Ginny was almost certain that it was only half truly work-related, and the other half related to the fact that, since Ginny had finally been promoted to head sports editor, his absence was less missed. It was like she was a Harpy again; people were much more amenable to receiving Harry’s apologies and regrets at not being able to attend when they came out of the mouth of someone who people suspected had an inside track on next week’s game. In the beginning it had made her feel like she was 22 again, a young Harpies superstar drunk on success and attention—except that at 22 she’d had Harry on her arm, and they’d been taking on the world together. Sure, she’d never been savior-of-the-Wizarding-World level famous, but people had noticed her, wanted to talk to her, sought her out. All of that had faded when she got pregnant with James, and then Harry attended these alone mostly. If she did, she was never far from Harry’s orbit (if she strayed too far, all that happened was people asked where he was). Now, though, while she at least was more than a decorative piece, she was alone, a poor stand-in for Harry, and tired of these charades. She hadn’t felt nearly so tired ( _and alone)_ at 22. 

Sometime after what felt like her thirtieth opining on the World Cup groupings for next year, the clear ring of someone clinking their spoon on delicate crystal cut through the din, and everyone’s gaze turned to Padma Patil, standing on a crystal dais in front of a set of large evergreen trees bedecked with twinkling lights. Padma was the head of employee relations and human resources at the Ministry, and, as Hermione and Harry had copiously assured Ginny and Ron, had planned this party entirely, so that nothing would be required of either of them in their stand-in capacities. 

“Welcome, all, to yet another spectacular Holiday Jingle Mingle!” Padma called out to the room, her voice magically amplified. Ginny grimaced involuntarily at the name, her lips curling downward briefly before she attempted to control her facial features. Her eyes darted up guiltily, to make sure she hadn’t mortally offended some stodgy old wizard who’d have a furious editorial in to the Daily Prophet about the Head Auror’s disrespectful and trashy wife before she could say bah humbug. Her panicked glance only met the shape of Draco Malfoy standing across the Atrium from her. While she’d seen his face many times since Hogwarts, at society events and plastered across the newspapers, the image of him that her mind always conjured was him at Hogwarts, thin, ferrety, nervous, and, especially towards the end, gaunt. It always took her by surprise, then, to see him now; while he was still on the thin side, he’d filled out, and the lines age had traced on his face served to soften his sharp features. More striking, though, was the way his twitchy, insecure arrogance had given way to a steady, relaxed self-assurance; he seemed less to be trying to hold himself above his surroundings and more like he was simply on an entirely different plane from them, no effort required. His face was impassive and yet somehow vaguely dismissive (as always) but as she returned her attention to Padma’s speech she thought she saw a slight upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

She’d assumed she’d missed nothing but the usual holiday platitudes in her moment of panic, but Padma was waving her wand and the candles were slowly floating down from the ceiling towards the eagerly waiting crowd. Ginny elbowed Ron sharply, who had returned to her side during the speech with a full plate and a glass of what smelled awfully like Ogden’s over ice. 

“Oi!” he grunted in her direction around the gulp of Firewhiskey in his mouth 

“You’re fine. Now, tell me what Padma’s been prattling on about, and why the candles are coming toward us.” 

“Merlin, Gin, you’ve actually paid less attention than me. There’s some sort of party continuation, like an after-party, hosted outside of the Ministry. ‘Sposed to be very, very exciting. The candles are Portkeys,” Ron murmured through the food in his mouth. Ginny rolled her eyes as he extended his now-empty plate towards a floating tray, collecting dirty dishes. As he straightened up, he suddenly stiffened, looking directly ahead. She followed his furious gaze to see Draco Malfoy again, calmly watching a candle floating down in front of him with politely feigned interest. 

“What is he doing here?” Ron hissed, red splotches beginning to blossom on his face. Ginny noticed Malfoy beginning to turn his head their direction, and stomped, hard, on Ron’s foot.

“I _assume_ he’s attending the party,” Ginny said through teeth clenched into a weak attempt at a smile, rolling her eyes furiously at her brother. 

Ron glared at her. “Fine, but _why_ is he attending the party? He doesn’t work at the Ministry, and he hardly looks like he’s someone’s guest.” 

“Well, you could say the same about both of us.” She shot a glance that reached near-Molly Weasley levels in his direction and watched as he slowly closed his mouth. “And no, it is _not_ different because we’re Ginny Potter and Ron Weasley, war heroes, spouses of the famous, and don’t you dare even think it, Ronald. Besides, they used to invite people from well-known families to these sorts of events all the time, whether or not they actually worked here.” 

“Exactly, Gin, they used to. I thought we were beyond getting invited to the best parties and getting ahead in life just because of your last name or how much money your grandfather’s grandfather made .” 

Ginny snorted, clutching her glass of wine. “Oh please, Ronald, the annual Ministry _Jingle Mingle_ is hardly one of the best parties, opening the doors of power. Just stay on your best behavior, alright? For Harry and Hermione? And because Hermione will curse you six ways to Sunday if you embarrass her.” Ron made a conciliatory grunt of defeat, unable to argue with his wife’s cursing acumen, and instead took another drink as the people around them began to reach up and touch their Portkeys, disappearing suddenly. Following their lead, Ginny reached up and grasped the surprisingly cool wax of a candle that had just floated into range, her wine glass still clutched in her other hand., and felt the telltale twist in her stomach 

The ground beneath her feet was uneven and she felt herself leaning sideways, catching herself but not before a quick stumble, blinking furiously as her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness of her new surroundings. Before she could get her bearings, her pulse begin to pound and her head spin as she remembered long ago flashes of repressed memories--blinking and waking up somewhere foreign, dark, cold, dimly lit, the spatters of wine on her pale hand reminding her of dried blood, Tom? Her knees swayed beneath her and she sloshed some of her wine onto her foot, the warm liquid running down her shoe and seeping between her toes, before she felt a large, warm hand grasp her elbow and steady her. 

“Had too much to drink already, Weasley?” 

She glanced up sharply to find not her brother, but Draco Malfoy, giving her his trademark smirk. It looked softer and more genial than it had in school, like she was in on the joke this time (though maybe that was just a trick of the dimness and the lines on his face), but it was definitely the same smirk. Ginny shook her head slightly, like a dog just come in from the rain, and simply stared at him, blinking slowly, for a few moments while her brain adjusted itself back to reality. _Merlin, he must think I’m either daft or truly completed knackered. Pull yourself together, Gin._ She straightened up, breaking eye contact and stepping away, gently pulling her arm out of his grasp. 

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Apologies, but travel by Portkey is... not my preference.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward again, and she had a sinking feeling he was trying not to laugh at her. “Nor is it mine, actually. Unfortunately the Manor is rather heavily warded against apparition.” 

At that her gaze finally turned to her surroundings, and she took in the large stone plaza around her, full of tables of food and fountains of every drink imaginable (including, she thought she saw, chocolate), with gardens stretching off to one side, shimmering with garland and twinkling red lights, and, to the other , the looming grey facade of what she now had to assume was Malfoy Manor.

“The... Malfoy Manor? The afterparty is at Malfoy Manor?” she said, her voice several octaves higher than she had intended. He nodded at her, slowly, as if she were a not-particularly-bright child. “The Ministry Jingle Mingle afterparty is at Malfoy Manor? And you, Draco Malfoy, agreed to this?” He shrugged slightly, a more relaxed gesture than she could ever remember seeing from him at Hogwarts; she hadn’t actually thought his shoulders capable of it. She still wasn’t entirely certain she hadn’t injured herself through the Portkey. There were persistent rumors that no one but family and close friends had set foot on the grounds of Malfoy Manor since the war, that Malfoy kept a large collection of Dark artifacts hidden, had an experimental creature breeding program on the grounds, was hiding Death Eaters who had evaded capture after the war, was even hiding Voldemort himself on the grounds. It looked remarkably... festive for Voldemort’s residence-in-hiding.

“Gin! There you are!” She whipped her head around to see Ron pushing through the crowd that was rapidly growing to fill the plaza. “You’ll never believe it--there’s a chocolate--”He stopped midsentence as he finally caught sight of her company, his mouth snapping shut abruptly. “Malfoy,” he spat, his tone the same as if he’d been pointing out slug slime on the floor. Ginny’s lips pursed, but Malfoy simply inclined his head slightly and answered back “Weasley,” in a mildly bemused tone. 

“Sorry Ron, you know how I get after Portkey travel. I just needed a moment.” 

“D’you think you might be pregnant again?” Ron asked, with entirely too much excitement and too much volume for Ginny’s preference. “You know, you got that way with both Lily and Al.” 

Ginny felt a sharp, painful heat spread its way across her face, which must now be flushed a furious scarlet, particularly when she saw Malfoy glancing surreptitiously over the length of her body. Her hands unconsciously went to the fabric stretched across her stomach, trying to smooth down the black velvet. She knew she didn’t look like the Quidditch superstar of her youth anymore, her body more soft and rolling than the hard-edged, lean power of her youth, and it had been awhile since she’d worn this dress, but she hadn’t thought she’d looked _pregnant_ in it. And now Ron had fueled the gossip rags for a solid month’s worth of stories about unflattering photos of her, Draco Malfoy thought she looked like she could be pregnant, and she had suddenly become deeply uncomfortable, both in her apparently too large skin, and with the fact that the second thought had even popped into her mind at all, much less how much it bothered her. What did she care what Draco Malfoy thought about her, her life, her body, or her sex life? 

“No, Ronald. I’m not pregnant,” she said coldly, before finishing the last dregs of her wine. “On the contrary, I need a new drink. Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” she said briefly, before striding briskly in the direction of a drink table, not even glancing back at the feel of Malfoy’s eyes on her retreating figure. 

~ ~ ~

She’d managed to get herself pleasantly tipsy and eat her way nearly through the entirety of a cheese tray while chatting with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, who had (much to no one’s surprise, and certainly not to Ginny’s) recently moved into a cozy flat in Muggle London together. Seamus was midway through the juicy details of Romilda Vane’s latest divorce when, through the crowd, the beginning strains of Ron, working himself up to a full-on shouting match, cut through the dull din of the party chatter. She raised a hand to Dean and Seamus, who both nodded understandingly, and then darted into the crowd. Ron was standing, with Draco Malfoy, thankfully somewhat isolated from the crowds in a corner of the plaza nearest to the gardens, Ron leaning dangerously close to the blonde as he gestured angrily. Heart thumping, she began to move faster. Nothing good could come of a drunk, angry Ron and Draco Malfoy. Malfoy’s hands were clenched tightly at his sides, but his jaw and shoulders were relaxed, loose and low, and his face and body looked otherwise thoroughly impassive to the casual onlooker.

“This is a bloody joke, alright? No one cares about this, Malfoy. The parties and the blood money donations--no one cares. You were a _Death Eater_ and we’ll never forget what that meant--what you did--what all of you--what--” Ron was sputtering now, his tone escalating, and starting to draw attention to their corner of the plaza. Ginny was now nearly frantic, every moment a near-miss with an oblivious party-goer as she bobbed and weaved through the assorted party-goers, focusing very hard on imagining this were all just another Quidditch game. Just as she drew near, Ron managed to stop spluttering, just in time to truly raise his voice.

“Merlin, Malfoy, the Minister of Magic, my _wife_ , was _tortured_ here, and--” Ron’s voice, cracking with emotion, was cut abruptly short, his mouth still moving despite his apparent sudden speechlessness. _Thank you, Mum, and I’m sorry I told you you were paranoid._ Ginny moved close to Ron and Malfoy, feeling the weight of dozens of inquisitive gazes falling on the unlikely grouping, waiting, predatorily, like a swarm of piranhas waiting to strike in unison at the least sign of weakness. 

“You’re right, Ron. It’s incredible what time can do, and how people can change and come together despite past differences,” she said, stepping hard on Ron’s foot. “It’s truly awe-inspiring to think that this place could be the scene of such tragedy in the past, and, through the efforts of we, the next generation, become transformed into a place of such joy in the holiday season. Thank you, Mr. Malfoy, for hosting and bringing so many of us together here.” He nodded in gratitude, she raised her glass, and the assorted guests who were paying attention muttered “here here” and drank gratefully. They were met with a smattering of applause, but most of the guests had already turned their attention to more interesting events, and she released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. 

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned away from the crowds, back to Draco Malfoy standing in front of her. “A dance, Weasley?” He tilted his head slightly to a couple of still-chattering onlookers. Oh. She nodded in assent, a little embarrassed she’d not realized sooner. As she moved to place her hand on his shoulder she realized that she still had an empty glass in it. Malfoy reached up to take it from her and snapped the fingers on his other hand. A house elf appeared beside them with a crack, a thin, spindly thing with giant green eyes, her ears obscured under a knit cap in a spectacularly bright shade of daisy yellow that matched the loose, poorly-sewn dress she was wearing. Ginny’s eyebrows shot so high she was certain they must be nearly at her hairline already, but Malfoy had already turned to the house elf.

“Tilly, could you take this where it needs to go?” 

“Yes, of course, Master Malfoy! I mean, Mister Malfoy, um, Draco, er, sir!” she said, taking the glass from him and disappearing with as sudden a crack as she’d appeared. 

Malfoy looked back to her, one corner of his lip twitching upward in amusement at what must be obvious disbelief written plainly on her face, and shrugged once again before taking her hand, gently grasping her waist and leading them into the strains of the next dance. “What was it you said, the efforts of the next generation?” 

Ginny was pulled into the dance and glided along with him easily, thankful for once to mindlessly follow a strong, capable lead. She normally led from behind, since Harry was a miserable dancer, but she didn’t think she could even muster the brainpower to do so at this point in the evening. “Those efforts involved sewing?”

It may have been a reflection of the red tinsel on the lights, but she could’ve sworn she saw a slight flush rise on Malfoy’s pale cheeks. “The freeing was my efforts. The... sewing was all Scorpius.” 

Ginny chuckled, several questions about how Albus’ cloaks always seemed to get mended through no efforts of Ginny’s own answered in her own head. “Mrs. Malfoy taught him?” 

Malfoy laughed loudly, the arm that was leading her shaking slightly with the force of it. Ginny realized she’d never heard him laugh before, at least never like this; it was low and deep, and he laughed so forcefully that each ended with a little gasp of air, and Ginny found it so delightfully infectious that she was soon chuckling along, even though she didn’t understand what was so funny at all 

“I’m sorry,” he said as he regained his breath, “I’m sure you meant Astoria, who was a terrible seamstress, and died before Scorpius was old enough to be learning sewing, but for a moment I thought you meant my mother. I can assure you, Mother has never held a needle unless she was trying to stab someone with it.” 

Ginny snorted at that, her face relaxing into an easy smile that matched the relaxation in Malfoy’s own. Maybe it was the alcohol, or some leftover adrenaline from the disaster with Ron, or the fact that this night had all seemed like some kind of accidental fever dream, but she was having fun, standing here dancing under the stars at the Ministry’s Jingle Mingle afterparty with Draco Malfoy. 

Said Malfoy piped up again after their few moments of companionable silence. “You’re rather a good dancer, you know.”

Ginny bristled instinctually. “Is that a surprise to you? Just because we grew up poor doesn’t mean we weren’t taught basic social niceties, you know.” 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you always this defensive when people try to pay you compliments? My family spent an altogether unconscionable amount of money on dancing tutors for years of my life, and I barely need to lead you.” 

“Oh.” Ginny relaxed back into his lead, feeling the hint of a flush spread across her cheeks. “Thank you. No, it’s because Harry is a really rubbish dancer, no matter how much I try to make him practice. I’m used to basically leading anyway.”

At this mention of Harry, it was Malfoy’s turn to stiffen, and Ginny felt a rush of completely irrational guilt as they continued twirling in silence. He loosened his grip on her waist to go into a spin, and as Ginny spun back towards him his renewed grip on her waist slid lower-- infinitesimally so, fingers just beginning to brush against the splaying curve of her hips, but enough for a flush of warmth to spread through her body. It must be that stupid red wine, she thought, as he readjusted his hand higher once again. 

“You know, you’ve forgotten to un-silence your brother,” Malfoy said with a glance at one of the food tables, where Ron was sulking, eating a pastry and listening to Lavender Brown talk more than enough for the both of them. 

“Oh, no, I haven’t forgotten,” Ginny said lightly, glaring in her brother’s direction. Malfoy chuckled at that, and tightened his grip on her hand as the two of them moved into a particularly fast step. Ginny’s stomach swooped low, she was sure with slight motion-sickness from the alcohol and the quickness of their movement. 

“Wandless, too?” Malfoy asked, and Ginny nodded shortly in response. His eyes danced as he looked at her in open admiration now. “Impressive. Why aren’t you the Auror, again?” 

Ginny flushed and stiffened, averting her gaze from his. “It’s a long story.” He nodded in respectful silence and they carried on a bit longer like that before her tried again. 

“So, why don’t you like Portkey travel?” Ginny’s lips pursed and she looked pointedly over his shoulder, feeling herself begin to tremble. Stupid wine, making her emotional. Stupid wine, stupid diary, stupid little girl, stupid Tom, stupid Ginny. 

“Just don’t,” she said shortly. 

“Another long story?” he asked gently, his grip on her hand tightening slightly, the strength behind his step picking up as her attention faded so that no one would see her shake or falter. She nodded curtly in response, otherwise mute. 

“I have time.” His voice was soft, Ginny barely able to hear its rasp over the music and the chatter around them, but as he led her out of the final turn of the song she stepped away abruptly. 

“It looks as though we don’t. Thank you for the dance, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, turning quickly and moving first to the wine before she found Dean and Seamus and begged them to take her drunk brother home with them. She certainly did not glance over her shoulder every few minutes to lock eyes with Draco Malfoy, who, no matter where he was or who he was entertaining, seemed to be looking at her, before turning away guiltily each time. 

~ ~ ~

Over an hour later, Ginny had finally succeeded in getting his old housemates to take Ron somewhere to sober him up before sending him back to Hermione (he may be her rude, idiot brother but he was still her brother, and she wouldn’t subject the Dark Lord himself to Hermione’s wrath right now), and had spent the rest of her time finding the most secluded bar at the event and sampling their finest alcohol. Now well and truly sloshed, she watched the enchanted bar poured her another gin and tonic with amusement. In a concentrated daze, she almost didn’t notice the stool beside her creak as someone sat down. 

“Your hair clashes with the decorations, Weasley.” 

Draco Malfoy was sitting beside her, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. He had a hint of flush on his face, a few strands of hair come loose from their tight knot at the back of his neck, and the top button of the Muggle shirt beneath his robes was undone. She leaned forward against the counter, merely craning her head over one shoulder to rake over the twinkling scarlet garland and lights before she met his gaze. 

“My hair has been around longer.” She raised an eyebrow in challenge. “And besides, it’s much less tacky.” 

Malfoy looked at her stoically for a moment, and a chill zipped through her alcoholic haze. Had she gone too far? Taken whatever joking camaraderie they’d mysteriously obtained over the course of the night and lost it? He reached for his wand and a jolt of sudden, viscerally instinctual fear raced through her like ice. He waved it at the decorations around them, muttering, and the sparkling red became a subdued evergreen shade, interspersed with twinkling white. “Patil has terrible taste.”

Ginny simply stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. He smirked at her, and she turned away, to reach for her drink and to hide the flush that had come over her. Malfoy had always made it seem like it was him against the world, and he had always made it clear what he thought of the world. This time that smirk, though, said that she wasn’t the world, she was on his side, and in that moment, them against the world, she understood those deeply close and fiercely loyal Slytherin friendships she’d always been so puzzled by. The two of them sat companionably together at the bar for a few moments before Ginny turned towards him. 

“So, what brings you to this lovely corner of your gardens?” 

“I was looking for you.” He said it straightforwardly, like he was casually mentioning that the weather was nice, but moments later he gulped down a sizeable amount of the whiskey from his glass. 

She turned away from him to take a gulp of her own gin and tonic, welcoming the slight burn and hoping feverishly that Malfoy would speak again before she had to come up with an answer to that. 

Her prayers were soon answered. “I, ah, wanted to thank you. For what you said earlier.” He was ever so lightly tracing circles on the wooden bar resting beneath their fingers. “I’m sure you were just trying to avoid making a scene, but... it means a lot to hear someone like you say things like that... think like that. It means a lot to people. The, uh, populace in general. And also to people like me. Slytherins, former Death Eaters. I guess also... to just me in particular.” 

His eyes shot up to meet hers suddenly as he ran a hand through his hair. “Merlin, Weasley, can you lend a hand here? I’m clearly rubbish at grand speeches and being thankful or whatever.” 

Ginny’s sat mute for a moment, her brain still trying to work through the alcoholic haze that had moments ago slowed the world to a pleasanter pace, but now seemed to be keeping her in slow motion at an important juncture. It couldn’t really be Draco Malfoy, the ferret, the former Death Eater, thanking her like this, could it? Ginny raised her eyes to his and saw, seemingly at the same time (though maybe that was just the gin) the man sitting in front of her right now, and the desperately insecure boy she’d watched fight for his father’s attention and affection at 11, and she briefly wished she could hug both of them fiercely. 

“I meant every word, Malfoy.” She reached out and clasped the forearm that was laying on the bar. He jerked it away from her, fiddling with the sleeves covering his inner forearm, and Ginny flushed bright red. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I... I didn’t mean...” Her eyes suddenly began to burn, no amount of furious blinking alleviating the weight of the beginnings of tears lying in heavy in her throat. He took another drink of whiskey and Ginny gratefully gulped at the gin and tonic. 

“I’m not an Auror because I wanted to be rich and famous on my own before I married Harry.” The words burst suddenly out of her, her wide eyes finding his, both surprised at her candor. “And if I’d been an Auror I’d have always played second fiddle to Harry and Ron. No matter how good I was, I’d never be savior-of-the-Wizarding-World good.” She paused for a sharp gasp, catching her breath to stop the words tumbling out of her. “Merlin, Malfoy, did you spike these drinks with something?”

She looked up and saw that he was looking at her in blinking disbelief. “No, Ginny Weasley, I believe you’re just drunk.” She giggled nervously, a little overcome with the alcohol, the twinkling lights, the fight with her brother, and now she and Draco Malfoy, exchanging drunken confessions. It was just all a little much for a stupid Ministry holiday party. The awkwardly high-pitched sound of her giggle faded out and hung between them until it, too, dissipated, and they were left sitting mere inches apart, each staring intently at the intricate wood graining of the bar. 

Malfoy broke this silence. “I don’t like Portkey travel because it reminds me of when he would summon us,” he said, rubbing at his left forearm again. “It wasn’t like Apparition, because you didn’t have to picture where you were going. You didn’t know, you just let the Mark, his magic, just... bear you along to him.” He looked back up at her face, which must have reflected the question in her mind. “I don’t know, I thought... one secret for another secret. It seemed fair, and like it might make you feel better.”

She laughed at that and he raised an eyebrow. “You’re such a Slytherin.” He smirked back at her and responded with a shrug that didn’t deny anything. 

The silence that descended as they each turned back to nursing their drinks was back to companionable again, and Ginny could briefly imagine that they were just old drinking buddies. Over the edge of the hedge in front of her Ginny could see the second story of Malfoy Manor, and as her eyes idly danced across the ornate stone she noticed a light flick on in one of the windows and a tall, gangly figure appear at the window for a moment before quickly dropping down. She chuckled, and noticed Malfoy follow her gaze before sighing heavily as a head slowly reappeared from the bottom of the window frame. 

“He’s a good kid,” she said warmly, smiling up at the peeking boy. 

Malfoy snorted. “Well, that’s two-fifths of the Potter family convinced.” 

“Maybe three-fifths. There’s a fifty Galleon prize for anyone who can figure out what Lily really thinks about anything,” Ginny’s half-hearted attempt at a joking smile melted into an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Malfoy. Harry is... Honestly I don’t know. Scorpius seems like a good kid, and he’s been a wonderful friend to Al, when he’s really needed one.”

Malfoy snorted. “Potter is the same way Potter has always been,” he said, his voice suddenly acid, his head bowed away from her. 

Ginny reached out, taking his hand in hers instinctually. “I’m sorry, Malfoy. On this, I’m with you.” He raised his eyes to meet her own and one corner of his mouth quirked up into a slight smile. He turned his hand within hers to latch their hands together, giving hers a gentle squeeze. 

Their palms lay pressed together tightly for a moment, and Ginny’s breath caught in her throat as she watched his gaze drift up to the now-dark second floor window with love fiercer than she’d ever imagined someone like Malfoy would be capable of. She’d thought maybe it was a Weasley thing, or a mother thing, or a Weasley mother thing, because while Harry loved her and their kids, Ginny had always known they shared space in his heart; with Hermione and Ron, with his job, with his own sense of purpose. She knew that Harry would die to save the world; she just wasn’t sure if he’d die to save her, and she’d accepted that. 

But now, Malfoy turned back to her, the emotion lingering on his face as he moved, and for just a moment she could imagine that intensity directed at her, what it would be like if he would, if anyone would, really look at her with that much concentrated passion, like he would not just die for her but burn down the world for her, and she felt a familiar tension draw taut low in her stomach. She was suddenly hyper-aware of the rough callouses on his palms, gently scratching against her own, his long fingers, wrapped almost entirely around her hand, the heavy weight of his gaze on her. She grew warm, scarlet spreading across her chest and cheeks as the treasonous animal part of her brain, starved by Harry’s long hours and dwindling attentions, paraded a rapidfire flash of images through her mind, flitting between the scandalous ( _his hand wrapped in her long hair, her tongue tracing the corded line of muscle running down his neck_ ), the pathetically domestic ( _Scorpius and Al tripping over themselves to bring them breakfast in bed, sitting on the plaza on a hot summer day and watching the boys play in the distance, his broad hands ruffling Lily’s tangled summer hair_ ) to the downright filthy ( _those long fingers inside of her, her hands tangled in his silken hair as he pressed her up against the bar right here and fucked her with reckless abandon_ ). She dropped her gaze from his and bit her lip, glanced back for a fleeting moment and noticed his eyes, darkened, focused on her lips. Her head was beginning to spin. 

She jumped at the sudden sound of Padma clearing her throat, her head whipping around to look at their surroundings. She heard a soft chuckle from next to her and saw Malfoy stifling a laugh. “A Sonorous Charm. Being a witch, you might’ve heard of it?” He pointed in the direction of the plaza, where Padma’s magically enhanced voice was directing people to gather at a particular table in order to take Portkeys back to the Ministry. Ginny laughed, by the end of which the nervousness was almost entirely gone from her voice. 

“So, this is the end of the party, I assume? And we all... take Portkeys back?” Ginny glanced nervously in the direction of Padma’s voice, which was currently describing the collection of Portkeys those queued were supposed to be taking. She felt a soft squeeze and looked down to realize that she was still holding Malfoy’s hand, and the low pressure in her stomach, which had momentarily dissipated in the commotion about leaving, was suddenly back, insistent and tingling, and she shivered slightly. 

“I may have an in with the man who controls the Floos here,” he said conspiratorially, with another smirk that looked closer to a smile, and Ginny beamed back up at him. 

The two of them stood, Ginny somewhat reluctantly disentangling her hand from his; it suddenly felt cold, and she found herself missing the soft pressure and presence that had already become disturbingly, soothingly familiar. He took them up a side path towards the house, along the edges of the plaza. They had nearly reached the Manor, and Ginny was thinking about taking what was clearly a much-needed cold shower when she got home, when Malfoy had suddenly turned around to face her. She continued toward the Manor, getting ready to call out to ask him what the problem was when she ran into it herself--literally. Some sort of invisible force or spell abruptly turned her so that she was now looking the opposite direction she’d been going, back at Malfoy. She turned to step another direction and found herself spun around again. Her pulse quickened, and she noticed Malfoy draw his wand out of the corner of her eye. She looked around, noting nothing out of the ordinary, until she glanced up. 

Sighing heavily, she tapped Malfoy (who was carefully prodding the barrier with his wand) on the shoulder. “Our predicament appears to be Weasley-made.” She gestured above them, where there was a softly floating bundle of mistletoe. It rustled slightly when they looked up at it, the bells intertwined in it jingling softly. “It’s a new product from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.” 

Malfoy sighed heavily beside her. “Ah, enchanted mistletoe. How... creative. So I assume to leave, we must...” He trailed off, hands gesturing vaguely at the air. 

Ginny flushed slightly at the implication, hoping that the darkness hid the rising scarlet. “Yes, I believe we kiss. And then we’re free. Simple as that.” The pitch of her voice rose abnormally high at the end. Simple, yes, simple was exactly the word she would use to describe kissing Draco Malfoy. He shifted beside her somewhat uncomfortably, and Ginny decided that the sooner she got around to the kissing portion, the sooner she could leave, and the less time she had to spend _thinking_ about kissing Draco Malfoy, which was causing her cheeks to heat and her face to flush and her stomach to twist in knots again. 

She closed the short distance between them with one quick step, and, bracing a hand on his sturdy shoulder, leaned up to brush her lips across his cheek. The shoulder beneath her hand was warm and solid under soft wool, a dusting of five-o-clock shadow tickling across her lips as she slid them up to his cheek, his breath warm on her face as he turned slightly towards her. Ginny stayed close heartbeat too long, her lips ghosting a line down his cheek, lingering against his skin until the last moment when she finally lowered her head and leaned back slightly. Even then, her hand remained on his shoulder, desperate for something solid beneath her. He turned to meet her gaze, and while his face was as impassive as ever, through the dim light she could see his pupils dilated, dark eyes lidded and heavy, his gaze lingering on her lips. The steady rush of blood pounding in her ears and the desperate thump of her heart was all she could hear, and she had the sudden, vivid thought that it must all be so loud Malfoy could hear it too. 

Instead, after another moment too long looking at each other, Ginny hastily turned and stepped forward, towards the Manor, the Floo back to her home, and hopefully some clarity, when she was suddenly spun around once more, left to face Malfoy, who had been watching her depart with a gaze so intense she would have almost called it predatory were it not for the slight slump of his shoulders and hint of something in anyone else she might have called loneliness. The curtain was drawn as soon as the two locked eyes again, but the momentarily glimpse she’d caught set her veins on fire. It had been so long since she’d been looked at like that ( _had Harry ever? had he ever wanted to chase her, run after her in desperate need? had she ever needed to be chased?_ ) that she found herself stepping back towards him, her chest rising and falling rapidly now. The mistletoe above them jingled insistently.

“It seems it disapproves of kisses on the cheek,” Malfoy said drily, but his heavy swallow told Ginny that he was feeling this electronic tension between them too, or at least something of it. She wished she could tell herself that it must be part of the mistletoe spell, but she knew it wasn’t. And besides, that didn’t explain what had happened earlier, at the bar. And even earlier, when they’d danced. 

“I suppose it needs a real kiss? On the lips?” Ginny’s voice was pitched higher than she’d intended. She looked up at the mistletoe, as if it would give her answers. It didn’t speak, but it did rustle encouragingly. 

Ginny locked eyes with Malfoy and the two of them took another step towards each other, so that there was barely a whisper of space separating their bodies. She licked her lips, more nervous over a silly kiss under some gag mistletoe than she’d been for any kiss she could remember. His eyes flicked away from her own to watch the dart of her tongue, and Ginny couldn’t stop herself from watching him watching her. They each looked at each other, waiting, a long moment of hesitant tension. Ginny couldn’t have been sure whether they’d stood there, thinking about kissing each other, for a second or an hour, but it was at the same instant that they both moved forward, Ginny reaching up to lay a hand flat against the crisp white of his dress shirt, heat radiating against her palm, Malfoy leaning down to meet her, one palm pressing gently against the small of her back as support. 

In the first moment, Ginny was struck by how different everything was--she hadn’t kissed anyone but Harry since she was 16, and she’d almost forgotten the beautiful quirks and differences between kisses, what you could learn from a person, about a person. Malfoy smelled masculine and clean, like cedar and clean laundry dried on the line and sun-drenched worn leather and woodsmoke from a fall bonfire, and he was tall, so that she found herself on her toes, leaning into his body to help her reach his lips, her hips and chest pressed against the solid line of his body. He kissed her gently, but firmly, like he’d held her hand, like he walked through a room--with a calm self-assurance that had none of the aggressive arrogance of his youth. His lips tasted every so slightly of the whiskey he’d been drinking. 

In the second moment, Ginny, intoxicated, whether from her gin or the whiskey from his lips or from his lips themselves, leaned forward, pressing more firmly against him, her hand curling against his dress shirt, delighting in the feel of his sharp intake of breath, her body bowing into his, molded tightly against him. 

In the third moment, she was suddenly aware that she needed to breathe, and leaned back, gasping in the chill winter air. For the briefest moment she thought of dark tousled hair and emerald green eyes, but then she felt a forehead resting against her own, Malfoy’s grip on her back shifting to tug her closer, and her eyes snapped open to meet not green eyes but grey, turbulent but fierce, looking at her with unconcealed lust. As her hand clutched helplessly at his shirt, she heard the rumblings of a growl low in his throat, and something broke inside of her. She pressed forward, her other hand snaking to clasp the back of his neck, her lips meeting his again, her body curving against him, pressed impossibly further forward, and he stopped holding back. His kisses were now hot, open-mouthed, their tongues sliding against one another, one hand tangling in her long loose hair, the other rubbing gentle circles along her lower back. She traced her fingernails along the back of his neck and he shivered against her, the hand on her back now grasping tightly at one hip. She whimpered slightly, her hand slipping against the exposed skin of his chest. It was a small consolation that his skin seemed as abnormally hot as hers, though she wondered if he too felt as if his veins were full of wildfire, burning down everything that had lived in her skin before so that it could be filled with more of his kiss, his whiskey mouth against hers, the feel of his long hair brushing against her cheek. “ _Fuck_ ,” he whispered against her mouth, body pressing insistently against hers. She arched against him, tangling a hand in his long hair, and her name sounded like a prayer out of his mouth. “Ginny... God, you’re beautiful.” She whimpered, drinking in his praise even though it made her head spin. His hand was roaming her body now, tracing the curves of her waist, her ass, brushing ever so slightly against the side of her breasts, and Ginny melted into his every touch, breathing his name against his mouth in between kisses. 

Suddenly, as if from a long distance, Padma’s magically amplified voice boomed, announcing last call for Portkeys, and the two of them jumped apart as if burned. Ginny was panting, could feel the slight tug of her hair tangled from his hand in it, and the uncomfortable awareness of her dress, somehow ridden up high on her thigh. She glanced at Malfoy out of the corner of her eye and a secret thrill zipped straight between her thighs at the sight of him looking as utterly wrecked as she felt, his shirt collar pulled open and mussed, his hair spilling out of its bun, lips red and puffy, eyes wide and pupils dilated. When she felt his gaze turns towards her, her eyes darted away to examine an intricate topiary some distance away. 

She strode purposefully towards the Manor, checking with the slightest glance over her shoulder that Malfoy was trailing behind her. They were at the large French doors blessedly quickly, though Ginny couldn’t be sure if she’d had to walk ten feet or ten miles to get to these doors, for as much as she’d noticed of the outside. Her head was pounding, throbbing to a low beat that did nothing to disguise from where it had originated. She reached for the doorknob but found that her hand just slid off at her first attempt; her palms were slick and her hands, when she stopped to notice them, outstretched before her in the soft light spilling out of the panes of the door, were shaking. She reached forward to try again, steadfastly ignoring the tremors she could feel racing down her arm, which had begun to feel less like her arm and more like a phantom limb, trying to quiver out of existence and disappear, when another hand reached the knob before her own, and pushed the door open. 

“Thanks.” Her voice, too, sounded more like the ghost of someone else’s voice. It was too high, tremulous. Ginny hadn’t heard her voice quiver like that since she was 12, a scared little girl with a secret. Maybe she was having an adverse reaction to the magic in the mistletoe? ( _Or to cheating on her husband?_ ) 

She crossed the threshold and would have continued barreling onward towards the Floo, had she had the slightest clue where she should head. She was in a large... ballroom was the only word her brain would unhelpfully supply, stretching impossibly long across the width of the house, with a dizzying array of doors opposite the windows overlooking the plaza, not counting the doors she could see on the second floor. She felt the electric brush of his robes against her bare elbow, studiously pretended she hadn’t jumped, hadn’t gasped just the slightest at the static charge. Malfoy gestured for her, and she followed him through a labyrinth of corridors deep into Malfoy Manor. Maybe he’d actually been hiding the Dark Lord here the whole time, and now she was to be presented to him--Ginny Potter, drunk, embarrassed, guilty, with knickers still wet from just a kiss. She suppressed a nervous giggle at the thought. 

Finally he opened a seemingly random door and gestured her forward into a surprisingly warm, wood-paneled room full of books, piles of parchment in tidy stacks, and a bubbling cauldron in the corner. On the wall immediately opposite the door was a large fireplace. “So, this is it. This is my office Floo, so it’s quite private. No reporters bugging the Floo network to snoop and speculate.” He shifted his weight back and forth, suddenly moving to tidy some already tidy papers on the grand mahogany desk taking up the bulk of the room.

Ginny nodded tightly. “Well, thanks, then.” 

A heavy silence fell between them, the only sound in the room the muffled rustling of papers against each other as Malfoy continued to straighten the same stack over and over. Ginny kept her gaze firmly fixed on the Persian rug beneath her feet, staring at the patterns until they began to twist and move on their own, contorting themselves into tantric sex positions and taunting faces. Finally, she took a step towards the fireplace and grabbed a handful of Floo powder.

“Weasley--Ginny, wait.” Ginny stopped, turning around to look at him, eyes wide. “I just wanted to tell you, about tonight... I didn’t mean... I wouldn’t have... I don’t want--” He was now shuffling the papers furiously into an ever tighter pile, turning and straightening each side, each of his attempts at a sentence punctuated by the sharp thump of the stack of papers against the desk.

She put up a hand to stop him. “I know, Malfoy, I know. You didn’t mean anything by it. You were drunk, you wouldn’t have normally done it, you don’t want it to be a thing, or a big deal. I know all of that. Just please don’t make me hear it out loud.” 

She turned and stepped into the Floo before he could stop her, before he could look too closely and see the tell-tale Weasley splotches. As she stepped into her comfortingly familiar living room, she rubbed fiercely at her cheeks, smearing the tears that had escaped onto her skin as if it would absorb them back, as if it had never happened. She trudged up to her bedroom, surprised to find Harry nestled in the bed. As she slid in beside him, her body curled around her pillow, she heard him stir. 

“How was the party? Anything exciting?” Harry’s sleepy voice was endearing, soft and murmured and a little slurred. James had inherited it exactly. She reached out to do the same thing to Harry as she’d always done, to him and to James, to ruffle the unruly mop of dark hair on their heads and then pat them gently, but she found she couldn’t bring herself to ( _silky blond hair wrapped between her fingers, whisper-fine threads brushing her cheek as they_ ). Ginny rolled abruptly over so that her back was to him, putting herself far away from this minefield. She thought briefly about answering his question, how it could have gone in a different year, a different life, a different Ginny and a different Harry. ( _You wouldn’t believe it, they had the new Wheezes mistletoe there. And don’t even try to guess who I got stuck under it with... no, no, actually, guess. Malfoy. Yes, Draco Malfoy. I know! Of course I had to kiss him, George designed the mistletoe. I’ll have to give him a piece of my mind at Mum’s on Sunday. Hilarious, right?_ ) 

“No, nothing really.”


End file.
